


Just . . . Come Back

by Chaotik_lord



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M, implied Fenris/Male Hawke - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-26
Updated: 2015-04-26
Packaged: 2018-03-19 15:59:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 13,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3615819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chaotik_lord/pseuds/Chaotik_lord
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dorian returns to Skyhold after a letter leaves him fearing for the Inquisitor.  With the aid of Cole, Dorian has to undertake a nerve-wracking journey to save the man he loves from an unlikely threat.  Adventure/Romance/Introspection.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place after the final battle, ostensibly. That said, I came up with this story to engage my brain as I'm grinding my way through side quests to level up more before the finale. As such, I have limited knowledge of how the game actually ends (but I'm only lacking The Final Piece), so I'll be making assumptions. Also, I know that the party characters usually go away at the end, but I'm keeping them around as I wish. Perhaps I'll rewrite after I finish the endgame. Anyway, won't match the canon endings.
> 
> Also, if I make lore mistakes, please let me know kindly, and if it seems important, I'll try to correct it. This is for fun. I haven't written a fic in years.

Chapter One:

Dorian's brow was furrowed as he compared the three missives from the meeting of the Magisterium. Each of these houses were dancing around saying anything of substance, writing cautious “maybes” and “perhaps” and “if it is prudent” responses to suggestions of anything that looked like a commitment to change. He had hoped that his charming infamy would turn ears, but it seemed as though old wounds and rumors brought forth by the Inquisition made it less than politic to commit to anything that might unsettle the wounded psyche of Tevinter. Still, this was early yet, and if he couldn't do it through finesse, there was always flash and fire. “Truly, who could resist this sparkling wit?” he said to himself as he shook his head.  


Dorian pushed himself away from the desk and found the pitcher of wine on a table nearby. He filled a cup and headed out onto the balcony, looking down at the busy but bustling streets of the respectable Minrathous neighborhood. The selection of the modest urban estate had not been accidental. It did not seem that he would return to his own house now; perhaps later, but he wished his name and reputation to be his own, as free from his family as he'd forced himself to be from the other. Yes, Dorian was no fool, and he used his name and nobility shamelessly, but he did so on his own terms, at his own home, and with his own agenda. And, it turned out that Dorian liked the slightly more energetic street than the one he'd known in the richest district, where everyone's estates were large and luxurious affairs that lived on streets with cool whispers.  


A sharp and certain knock came at the door to the study, and he hadn't managed to cross halfway to the door before Banora opened the door. The elven woman of middle years was dressed as severely as always, a tailored crimson dress under an equally well-crafted black vest with heavy bronze buttons at an angle. Her pale hair was half-bound, but several strands fell along her face, her expression equally businesslike and amused, still. Dorian had absolutely adored the liberati-no, he was trying to forget such terms, now-when he had asked about an aide, and she was stubborn and snarky enough to entertain him, something he needed more than he would admit. Their rapport had been a comfort in this old world made new again, and he was grateful.  


“What news, then?” he said, noticing the letter in her hand. “More empty promises from House Marnus if I will marry the daughter? I'm certain the last offer implied I could have her brother as a reward!” He chuckled.  


Banora raised an eyebrow. “No such offers today, but this letter came by a courier bearing the mark of the Inquisition.”  


Dorian nodded. “Well, what does it say? More comfortably generic updates, I'm guessing?” Dorian received word of the goings-on of the Inquisition frequently. Like almost everything else, he let Banora read and report whatever she gleaned from those sorts of messages, leaving him time to read between the lines of less forward letters.  


“I wasn't clear,” Banora said, cheek and curiosity in her voice. “This letter is a personal missive, delivered by one of the Inquisition's own couriers.”  


His breath seared his chest, and his stomach tried to float out through his throat. “A personal letter . . .” Devlin had promised to write, had so tenderly given him a folded page to take with him. “The first of many,” he had said, and Dorian fought back tears as he tucked it away before embracing him. Yet several months had passed, and there had been no word. He would hear of Devlin in the Inquisition updates. “The Inquisitor rode to Denerim as a representative of House Treveylan,” or “The Inquisitor has ordered an initiative to destroy the dragon lairs,” or “The Inquisitor has not taken a position on the tensions surrounding the Qunari mages.” Dorian hadn't thought to read between the lines of these reports, but it suddenly seemed strange to Dorian that his fellow mage, so forcefully for their welfare, would really take no position about that brewing problem. Devlin Treveylan was a noble as much as he was a mage, but Dorian had seem him break his measured politicking over mage rights.  


“Well,” Dorian said, casually smiling as he extended a hand, “He's been a very busy man, I expect.”  


Banora smirked as she dropped the letter into his hand. “If that will be all, my lord, I will see if our young courier would enjoy some tea whilst you ponder your reply, which I'm sure will be quite speedily penned.” She closed the door as she left, adding, “And I shall expect to hear about it all over supper.”  


Dorian shook his head, humming softly to himself the song they had danced to at the Orlesian ball. He opened a drawer at the top left of the desk, removing the folded letter, still sealed. He was stubborn, and, if he had to admit, a little bit afraid it might be the last from his amatus, so he'd refused to open it until there was another. He refilled his cup of wine and lounged across a chair, one foot against the desk as he sipped at his wine. Which letter to open first?  


“I've kept the old one this long; what's a few more minutes?” he decided, tossing the older message atop the desk as he flipped over the fresh correspondence, and stopped, confused. The seal was not that of the Inquisition, nor house Trevelyan, nor the Circle. He stared at it, trying to place it.  


This letter wasn't from Devlin. He ripped it open, feeling queasy, though he struggled to say why. No, it wasn't from Devlin. This letter came from Varric.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we get a few important letters.

Chapter 2:

Dorian stared at the dwarf's familiar handwriting with a sense of displacement. It hadn't occurred to him that the letter could be from anyone else other than Devlin, and he felt a little foolish. It was perfectly reasonable for someone else to write him, and Devlin was a very busy man. Why would it follow that he'd write now? He groaned in frustration, glaring at the unopened treasure sitting on his desk. “I don't want to read it,” he snapped, scratching idly at the edge of his mustache. Banora would be so disappointed at dinner. “Maybe not,” he said, voice solemn with resignation. “Varric tells a cheery tale.” He shook his head and looked down at Varric's message.

_“Dorian,_

__

_I hear you're doing all right out there in Tevinter. At least, that's what I hear from word around Thedas. I've gotta tell you, we've all missed your humour around here. Would it kill you to write?_

__

_I should warn you that I'm doing my best to write this, despite the interruptions of a well-meaning young man. Our Cole has a lot of opinions on what needs to be said, and I'm trying to share my own. Things haven't been right since you've left._

__

_I guess the polite thing to say would be that the Inquisitor is . . . not doing too well. He's not himself. Aimless, distracted, and way too easily cheated at Wicked Grace, if he even plays. Don't get me wrong; the man still fulfills his duty. And maybe that's the problem. He's just 'The Inquisitor.' Maybe he's even Inquisitor Treveylan. But he's not Devlin, not anymore. And I know that the Divine might argue that's a good thing, if he isn't anything but a purified leader, but I'm not so sure. She fought with him, with Devlin Trevelyan, and he stood his ground. Was he ever wrong?_

__

_Cole wants me to tell you that the Inquisitor hurts too much. He says that his is filled with pain and decay, and he's going away. He wants you to know that. I hate to say it, but he's right about one thing: that ginger-crested saint hasn't been the same since you left, and it's not just the end of the war. I've found him asleep in the library more than once, and he wasn't even reading._

__

_Cole says that neither of you know what or why. I don't know what that means. That kid . . . you know.  
You have to write him. Cole says you need to come back. He says everything falls back to what it was otherwise. I guess I didn't know how painfully you ended things, but I think you should pay a visit. I don't know how this new story ends._

__

_I wouldn't wait until the slow season in Minrathus, if you get my meaning. I think he's fraying at too many seams.”_

 

Dorian read it twice more, unable to find anything hiding in the text. It was honest, on the surface, but it made little sense. He slumped over in the chair, barely getting the cup to his lips. “Why hasn't he written? It sounds like . . . “ Dorian shook his head fiercely. Had the letter been a formal end? All of his old insecurities came flooding back, all of the fears as they had grown closer and closer . . . _.he won't want me . . . he doesn't need me . . .he doesn't beg me to stay . . ._ Everything he'd expressed had been disproved, but that didn't change Dorian's nature. His mind was already constructing the logical scenario that supported his self-doubt. Devlin hadn't written because he understood the lack of response to the letter he had given Dorian, no doubt explaining that things needed to slow down or end because of the separation. It was a perfectly reasonable conclusion. Dorian felt himself struggling against steel blooming in his chest, everything tight and heavy, making it hard to breathe. He played a dozen scenarios in his mind, fresh pain forcing the worst in every fantasy. “He gave me up, and he's sorry,” Dorian choked out. Somehow, it seemed worse this way, to know they were finished and not in some limbo with hope.

Suddenly, at the impossible crest of pain, he felt a sense of calm. The pain receded, and he straightened as breathing became easier. It might have been moments, but it had been no more than minutes, and he felt unusually level. “I don't even have all the facts!” he chastised himself as he reached for the old letter, opening it carefully, mindful of the creases. “At least let me know before I decide to make a fool of myself, wallowing like an Orlesian pig, all drama and mud-slinging.”

Dorian read the letter, skimming it, looking for answers without hearing his voice. His eye caught on phrases, sweet and worshipful, but encouraging. Expressions of pride, and sadness. A declaration to keep this alive. A promise to join Dorian when the Inquisition was stable. And an opportunity that he'd assumed Dorian had exercised.

_“And so, my beloved, I want you to know my pride, my love, and my admiration for your choice. I am here, if I am still your amatus, but even if I am only your friend, I will always be there. I know this choice was hard for you, and I will respect your choices. I will await your reply, and I, out of my love, will honor that – even if it is no reply, and you deem it too hard to continue at all. Know that, regardless, you are forever in my heart.”_

Dorian exhaled as he read the final paragraph, once, twice, again and again until he lost count. Devlin hadn't written-for him. They'd both been too courteous, that way, only Devlin had managed to say it-well, he'd failed to say it, but Dorian didn't fault him. Who wanted to have that conversation, especially when embracing was an option?

Varric wouldn't have known what words were in the letter, but Devlin might have mourned the outcome one night over a drink. Cole would have felt his pain increase, slowly, sharply. And both were concerned enough to send a messenger across a nation. 

Dorian, who noticed himself reaching for fresh parchment, snapped his head up, eyes wide. Suddenly, the last few minutes made sense. The sense of calm, the sudden easing of pain, and the import of what was said in Varric's missive. It must be.

Dorian snapped open the study door, running down the back stair to where Banora sat across the table from a young man in a ridiculous hat, both holding tea, but one cup untouched.

“I knew it!” Dorian exclaimed, crossing the room and sitting between them. “It had to be you! Why did you come? Surely you didn't take this journey just to make me feel better about my afternoon reading material.”

Cole looked up from his tea, calm and sad and hopeful. “I knew you would want to ride at once. And I thought you could use the company.”


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian and Cole set out for Skyhold.

Banora stopped him as he settled the last of his bags across the horse. “Dorian, be careful. You know, and I know, and they know, but exercise caution.” Her warning was prim and secure.

“I'm coming back with him,” he let her know. Dorian glanced at Cole. “He'll need time. Weeks to months.” It was an odd feeling. The shadow he'd tried to flee was no longer so heavy. It was still dark and weighty, but more like a valley or a well. “Devlin isn't well.”

Banora's mouth turned into a tight line. “My lord, you know this cannot be. You are fighting for us. Save him, if you must, but don't abandon us. Dorian-” she added, her tone edgy and dangerous, “We need you as well.”

He stared at her, his mouth slightly slackened by this rare poignancy. _I'm a man! Alive!_ ” he shook his head. “Banora, even if I forgot about you, Devlin wouldn't allow it.” He lowered his voice, reaching out for her hand. “We will not ignore your plight.” Already, he felt afraid, as Devlin couldn't be torn from the Inquisition's work. Yet it sounded as though he needed a break from it.

She gave a dramatic sigh as she smacked the horse on its rump. The beast was still within the stables, and danced only inches away with an aggravated whinny. 

“Smack it like the ass you are, _sir_ , she added, glaring at Dorian.

“Yes, Banora, liberation of the superior elves. Do you mind right now?” he snapped back, “I happen to be in l-” Dorian stopped himself, and finished with something that gave him him shame. “Go inside and prepare the house.:”

Banora didn't bother to look at him as she went inside, but Cole did. “She isn't happy. She trusted you, and you made her feel afraid. It makes her unhappy.”

Dorian growled, “Shut up, Cole. Either lead me to the Inquisitor, or don't.”

“But you know how to get to Skyhold,” Cole added helpfully, and Dorian rolled his eyes.

“Yes, I do. Never mind.”

It would have made any other journey awkward, but it simply made this one boring. Cole asked some funny questions, but without another person, Dorian was forced to answer them honestly. He took most of them with patience and humor, until one.

“He wanted to do what you showed me in your diagram,” Cole told him calmly. “It would have made him happy, but it would also have made him angry, So I didn't do it.”

Dorian jerked at his reins and guided his mount in front of Cole's mare, forcing her to stop. “Listen to me, Cole,” he said, his voice rushed and heavy. “That drawing - it was only a scribble. You wouldn't begin to know-” Dorian couldn't put his finger on the heart of his consternation. In many ways, Dorian often erred in thinking of Cole as he thought of the victims of Tranquility, but he was forced to remember that Cole was the opposite, if anything. “My point is, it's best that you don't try to help people that way.”

“Not for him; he would have been angry. But what if it were someone else?” Cole asked, very seriously.

“But you don't understand, and that's . . . wrong. Wrong for you. Even if you don't believe that you'd mind.” Dorian cocked his head to one side, looking at Cole's unbothered expression. “It's impossible. Anybody who wants that kind of favor isn't type of person you want to help.” Dorian shook his and and made a dissatisfied clicking sound with his mouth.. He'd have to ask Devlin to track down this person and see the situation handled. 

“It makes you angry,” Cole commented. “Maybe that's why he would have been angry, too.”

Dorian guided his horse forward. “Enough of this talk, Cole,” he said. “Tell me more about what's going on with Devlin.”

Cole stared ahead, eyes not quite focused as he whispered. “The pain runs deep and cold. Without you, he doesn't want to do it anymore. It hurts him even more that you don't feel the same.”

Dorian drew in a sharp breath, trying to construct a response. He felt a flare of pain at the base of his breastbone. “He thinks that? Because I didn't write?”

Cole chewed his lip, wincing slightly. “That's not it. It's hard to explain. Like a mirror with no reflection. Something unseen, but something not correct. Dorian, I can feel your hurt, too. And you are better than he is, but not really. You just have more lies wrapping it up.” Cole nodded, and looked halfway at Dorian, his gaze more groundward than anything. “I think you have to keep that right now. To help.”

Dorian sighed dramatically. “Ah, of course. This is the sort of delightfully charming banter I can expect for the next few weeks on the road?”

Cole furrowed his brown and looked critically at Dorian. “No, that's too long. It can't be a few weeks. I came here faster. I had to. Too little time.”

“Cole, if we get through Nevarra and to the Waking Sea in less than three weeks, the Maker himself will be calling on us for travel advice. If winds are good, we've got a few more days on the sea, and then we'd better pray that the weather holds ascending to Skyhold. A month's worth of miracles might see us there.” Dorian realized that traveling alone with Cole was a quick way to a nasty headache. 

“Sorry,” Cole whispered. “I miss when everyone else is here, too. Those were happy times. Even when we were attacked by all of those Templars. It won't be long, Dorian. You'll see.”

“Patience,” Dorian said vaguely, and looked up at the sky. “We'll get there.”


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are still weeks ahead as Dorian and Cole continue their course to Skyhold. But perhaps Cole is right. There isn't enough time for that journey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a bit of a surprise chapter; it wasn't in my outline.
> 
> I've been reading a lot all day, and I realized that things in my head aren't in yours, so I hope that this will help with what is to come.
> 
> Also, I know Dorian isn't as charming and snarky as usual. I apologize, but he can't be right now. He is alone with Cole. Mentioned in the chapter. He's just as frustrated. ;)

The journey was passing quickly. It was odd to be alone with Cole. All of the warmth and protection he'd always felt for the kid came rushing back, but when they were alone, chatting (no, the wasn't that right word; Cole didn't chat), he would start to feel confused after a while. Without anyone else around, Dorian began to question his sanity. It didn't help that Dorian pushed them to exhaustion every day. He'd find himself falling asleep in the saddle before he told Cole that they would make camp every night. Dorian had lost track of how many times they'd traded horses for fresher, faster mounts, and, instead, imagined a reunion at Skyhold as he fell asleep. If he was honest with himself, it had become an obsession. He wasn't sure what to expect, but he imagined Devlin as tired, perhaps angry, and Dorian would be the hero. He would take him away to someplace warm and easy. The Tevinter hadn't given up on his insistence that the Inquisition needed his lover, but he was certain that the Inquisition would have nothing if they didn't start treating Treveylan as a man, and not an ineffable legend.

Oddly enough, Cole rarely mentioned Dorian's exhaustion. He let the mage set the pace. Dorian decided to ask, one afternoon.

“Cole, I know you don't need sleep, but do you still become tired?”

Cole assumed his blank look of confusion. “Tired is when you cannot sleep. If I do not sleep, I would not be tired.”

Dorian chuckled. “Tired is more than sleep, Cole.” His cheeks twitched as he tried to explain. “Tired is the feeling that you have no more, that everything must stop, if only for a few moments.” Dorian was tired-he was positively certain he'd die from a lack of snark in their talks, but to do so with Cole would only confuse him, and Dorian wasn't really mean-spirited. “Sometimes, you go away,” he added, his volume increasing with the hope that he'd made a connection.

Cole looked ahead, motionless atop his latest mount. After a moment, he nodded. “The Inquisitor was tired, then. Mostly, he was sad, but he was tired too.”

Dorian felt his chest tighten. He looked around, trying to assess their position. He prepared himself to tell Cole that he'd already dismissed any further conversation, and to enquire, once more, whether the spirit-child felt any of this at all. 

“You're tired, Dorian,” Cole exclaimed, oddly, his face still expressionless. He looked at Dorian, his lip quivering slightly, but his eyes pulled together in his own characteristic certainty. “Do you want to slow it down?”

Actually, Dorian did. The sun was barely past the zenith, and the road ahead was as clear as ever, but Dorian treated his horse unfairly with his ferocity as he jerked the reins, stalling their progress. “You know, Cole, I think I am. We'll stop early today, and you can watch me drink a bottle of wine. Tomorrow, we'll do this all again.” He dismounted with as much force as one could exercise tumbling off the side of a horse, adding extra weight to his boot as it hit the ground and grabbing the harness of Cole's mount in one smooth motion. “Get off. Tonight, we rest.”

 

Dorian awoke in pain. At first, he was convinced that the steady pressure in his head was responsible, so he traced it to the gurgling in his gut. That wasn't the problem, either. There hadn't been enough wine, but Dorian remembered talking to Cole-he opened his own wounds, and Cole sat there, looking at him with the potential of pity and never finding it.

“You are right, Dorian,” was the most the kid ever said.

He lay there, very aware of the particular discomfort of the tent. Maker, the Southern districts were meant to be cool, weren't they? Sweat rolled over his body, the little droplets soaking the rough sheets he laid between. Sitting up, he began gathering the unkind textiles. After nine days, he was already willing to give up a half-day's travel for his own comfort, and Devlin couldn't afford that. “Well, maybe the southern mage shouldn't have picked a backwater mountain range as his home,” he muttered, voice reverberating with warmth. “I guess anything looks good against a Circle.”

Dorian made fast work of breaking down the tent, but noticed that Cole wasn't standing in wait as he usually was. “Silly me. I need to sleep, still.” Dorian looked around, his muscles tightening ever so slightly at the lack of Cole. They hadn't kept a proper watch, but Dorian needed to sleep, and Cole didn't . . .

Suddenly, Dorian was ready to fight. His skin tingled, and he fought through the strange weightlessness that overtook his body. “Cole?” He started towards the edge of the camp, sweeping up his staff as he approached the dark border.

Cole emerged, beaming _when does he beam?_. “Dorian, we are at the sea. The winds seem pretty.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter represents a detour from how I had originally intended to tell this story. I may eventually need to remove the adventure tag, and add a bunch more. I did not really understand tags when I first posted. And it will certainly be much longer than my original prediction.
> 
> Perhaps I've read too much other fanfic before finishing. Anyway, enjoy. I hope?
> 
> For some reason, I can't get italics to take at the end of the chapter. Much of the end (starting with Dorian and his book) should be italic flashback. I'll keep trying. I'm a coder, so I'm confused.

Dorian grinned to himself as he caught sight of Cole in the crow's nest, not necessary on this calm jaunt across the waking see, and otherwise unoccupied. He made his way to the bow, another favorite spot of the unpinnable spirit on their brief journey across the sea. It had been only a day and a half, and he'd overheard a sailor say that the journey was the swiftest he'd ever seen, catching sight of a rocky isle meaning they were almost _nearly_ there. The air was warm, winds bustling kindly but firmly behind them as the ship cut through the waters. Dorian looked across, nearly expecting land after the impossible pace, but seeing just the drowsy grey mist at the edge of the water.

He'd never taken a sea journey with Devlin. Orlais and Ferelden only shared a border of land, and though the travels had been roughly timed, they had never required more than a ferry across a river.

“Pushing us like the Maker himself demanded our books,” he remarked, enjoying the breeze threatening his hair. Devlin was good at that. He'd sit at his desk, arranging his missives across a map, and plot their merciless pace with absolute understanding of what needed to be done now, what could wait, how many miles they needed to travel . .

_Dorian looked up from his book, frustrated. “Maker, must you be so precise?” he said lightly, glancing over at Devlon wrapping thread around pins._

_Devlin didn't look up from his project. “I think that I'm missing a shortcut,” he grumbled, switching two pins. The mage wrapped a few inches of newly freed string about his finger, his head swinging about the map rapidly. Glancing up at Dorian, he moved his hand as much as the thread leashing his finger would allow, and he grinned. Trevelyan loved sorting out puzzles. “And this-this is three more days.”_

_“It would have been, had I not counted your hours at the map at four days,” Dorian said lightly, raising an eyebrow._

_Devlin laughed, a quick and genuine thing. “Not true. I left the council yesterday.”_

_Dorian snapped his book shut and walked over to the map. He adopted a serious expression, his noble eyebrows twisting as his lips parted slightly. “I'd say you brought them home with you,” he began, tracing the edge of a border inked along the map. “Maybe southerners have different tables, but I'm fairly certain this Orlesian border is identical to the one on the war table. In fact,” Dorian added, slipping his left hand along Devlin's shoulder as he leaned it, “This is the exact location of Val Rouyeax. And Emprise du Lion. Oh, and this looks like the Western Approach!” Straightening, Dorian moved behind the Inquisitor, nibbling at his ear. “I'd say,” he whispered heavily, sounding like cinnamon oil and pricklepine, “You'd brought the council with us. I don't recall giving permission for them to join us in our bed.”_

_Devlin snorted. “My bedroom, you mean.”_

_“Ah, so they'll just be watching? Such a great consolation! I shall be at my best for such a distinguished audience!” Dorian said, eyes widening with false admiration for their imaginary peers. He grabbed Devlin's shoulders, forcing him away from the table, forcing him to face him and towards the bed. “Come, we must begin at once. It won't do to keep the Inquistion waiting.”_

_And the other man laughed, loosening, his head dropping to control his amusement, red strands cutting over his face. “Very well,” he whispered, and then he looked up, grassy eyes being overtaken by expanding pupuls. “We'll leave the Inquistion for now. But I don't think that you should keep the Inquisitor waiting.”_

“You can't get along,” came the quiet voice behind him. “The water is deep and cold, and you are light and warm, and it is dangerous.”

_I wish you wouldn't_

“Sorry,” added the voice. Dorian didn't turn around. He had his own ethereal moment now, and wasn't ready to give it up.

After a moment of thinking, he faced Cole, trying to hide his disappointment with the interruption. Cole sometimes came for the wrong reasons. Dorian felt himself relax, halfway between resignation and despair. “What do you mean?:

Cole looked over the bow, past Dorian. His eyes drew together, and he nodded. “Never mind, Dorian. It was good.”

“Great for me as well,” Dorian let him know over his shoulder as Cole scuttered off. Perplexed, he crossed his hands on the edge of the bow and rested his chin, trying to decide if he should revisit the memory. He felt the acids in his stomach moving with the waves, and groaned a little.

_Dorian finished his chapter and looked across the narrow space between them. Devlin occupied the other chair in the library, entirely engrossed in his latest text on Elvish history. Devlin was obsessed, and had been since his Circle days. The hours the man spent with Solas were amongst his favorites, but Dorian doubted anyone else realized. Dorian didn't even realize that the markings he bore were an honor to that tradition until Devlin had dragged him through the Exalted Plains. He had so many questions, but they were uncertain._

_The Tevinter tried to stare at Devlin with his eyelids dropped, pretending to read. It didn't work. Perhaps Devlin noticed his movement, or perhaps it was coincidence, but Trevelyan raised his head and grinned immediately._

_Dorian huffed, tossing his head. “Must you watch me whilst I read?”_

_“Well, I don't have to,” admitted the other mage, looking upwards. “Yet you must admit you don't make it easy.”_

_“I know, my charm and absolute sophistication must present a constant promise for study. You do study, I've noticed.” Dorian kept his finger between the pages, but he leaned forward._

_To his surprise, Devlin matched him. Well, he put the book down, and when he leaned forward, he put a hand on Dorian's knee, but it was largely the same. “Dorian-”_

_Dorian pretended to look alarmed. Whatever was in that book must have piqued Devlin's interest. “Please tell me that we won't be spending two weeks in a muddy tent.”_

_“Of course not!” Devlin replied. He glanced out the window to the right. “It'll be three or four weeks, probably.”_

_“UuaghaughGGHHH,” said Dorian._

_Devlin smiled again, his eyes alight with his deception. “You think me a bit too serious, ma vhenan. Of course not.” Devlin looked relaxed as his hand began to caress Dorian's leg, gripping occasionally along his thigh. “I want you to come with me to Ostwick, and then to visit my home.”_

_Dorian chilled. After a moment, he managed, “Ah, I don't know, Devlin. The Free Marches are terribly dull.”_

_He immediately regretted it. Devlin hadn't fallen for his deflection, and his hand tightened briefly on his knee before he slunk back into his own chair._

_Dorian remembered, and he would continue to regret. This stupid boat._


	6. Chapter 6

He rode into the keep confidently, despite the earlier proclamation. Everything looked normal enough, if a bit quiet. Dismounting, he handed the reins to a groom as Cole wandered off, distracted by a tired-looking woman with a basket of laundry trudging across the courtyard.

“Dorian Parvus. I've been told that Varric is expecting me,” he told the clerk who hurried out to meet him. The woman nodded.

“Yes, I remember, m'lord. Varric is in the hall, as usual,” she added, bowing slightly andw waving him on.

Dorian took a few steps towards the stair, then turned back to check on Cole. He was tucked against the wall, frowning with shared sadness at the woman with the laundry. The Tevinter mage shrugged, deciding to let him help whom he needed to help for now, and made his way to the top of the stairs. Everything felt so familiar. If he walked off to the left, he'd find his rooms, quite often unoccupied. Trevelyan had been very persistent – and, if he was honest, he'd was more so.

 

_Treveylan answered the door in a tunic and breeches, looking tired, but his eyes lit up with that wretched shade that nearly matched the rifts when he was pleased. “I said I'd come later, Dorian,” he said, swinging the door so widely open that he had to tuck himself behind it to allow Dorian's entry._

_Dorian pretended to accept the offer without noticing. “Lord Treveylan, I expected your company hours ago. I believe that we had arranged a meeting after last bell. You have failed to arrive. I'm positively insulted by this slight.”_

_Devlin was still tucked behind the door, gripping the edge of the massive wood block, and looking like a child offered a cake. He rubbed his cheek against the wood and said, soft as fleece, “I thought I had things to do.”_

_A tanned hand caressed his face before Dorian slammed the door shut, a soft rumble rising from his chest. “One thing.”_

_Devlin's face relaxed as he stared at Dorian. He looked once towards the heavy door, set so cleanly into the wall._

_“Let's get to work.” And everything left unsaid was washed away by the tide._

Varric interrupted his reverie, a familiar voice down and to the right. “Sparkler.”

Dorian looked down and grinned. “You are a sight for sore eyes, Varric.”

The dwarf didn't look away, but his head tried. “Ecgh,” he mumbled, and shook his head. “Why is this my job?

Dorian looked at him curiously, raising an eyebrow. “Greeting a charming guest such as myself? They probably knew that I'd prefer to be met by someone of equal wit.” He felt a little twinge at Devlin's absence, but he'd seen Varric smooth over another irate lover once, and the dwarf's own manner of diplomacy was disarming. “You needn't worry. I wasn't going to cause a scene.” Looking around at the decor main hall, still not finished, he sighed. “The stage isn't worth my talents, I wager.”

Varric let loose a sigh that rolled into a chuckle. “I suppose it isn't.” The dwarf's cheek tightened briefly, and he exhaled loudly, shaking his head. “How about a drink, Sparkler? I've got a fantastic bottle that Devlin dug out of the cellar. Looks more like he dug it out of the ground, with all of the dust on it.”

The mage looked at him with appreciation and curiosity. “Those are always the best bottles. You must have done something to earn such a treasure.” He clapped the dwarf on the shoulder. “Did you fight off an eager chambermaid for him? Or maybe something easier, like a demon?”

Varric chortled, and it looked right after like it hurt him. “You're not far off. Come on.”

Dorian was surprised when Varric didn't stop at his space in the hall or veer off to the tavern, but rather led Dorian to his quarters. It was the room of a busy man; books and papers were stacked on many available surfaces, and the table near the fully-stoked firceplace had chairs untucked from activity. “You've had guests lately,” Dorian remarked as he adjusted one of the chairs at the table. “Latest novel must be in high demand. The tale of the Inquisitor! Or have you been writing the Herald of Andraste angle?”

Varric eased himself into a chair across from Dorian, two small glasses hooked into his fingers. “Bit of both, of course,” he said carefully, setting the glasses on the table. He uncorked the bottle and poured them both a healthy portion. “I don't want to alienate my audience, so I keep it in the middle.” He raised a glass, and raised a brow at Dorian's. “Here's to the Inquistor.”,

Dorian finished the brandy quickly as he turned to his friend.and rattled the cup upon the table.

“Another round?” Varric offered hopefully, leaning back and raising an eyebrow.

“Of course!” concurred Dorian He raised another glass, scrutinizing Varric. He had bigger news, but Dorian was irritated by that fact he couldn't suss it out. As he slammed the glass down, he ignored the intrusion (but noted how delicious the liquor had been).

“When will he be back? I've got to have a conversation about the décor around this place. Your rooms are nice,” Dorian added warmly.

Varric refilled his glass. “That's one story I didn't want to tell.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which author error doubles your chapter length.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is longer than usual for three reasons:
> 
> 1) I forgot to include an important scene, the very seed of the tale. Fortunately, my omission actually got me out of another tough spot.
> 
> 2) I do not wish to be evil, and I didn't want to leave the chapter without establishing an important fact
> 
> 3) This wasn't easy to write! Even though I feel it is a bit rushed, especially at the end, it has taken time.
> 
> I actually want to continue, but it'll take a day or two. Or maybe one short chapter to make up for this.

He knew. He feared, but he knew. Varric was watching him, and Dorian just slid his glass across. “Go ahead,” Dorian allowed, in clipped and measured tones.” _Maker, no!_   “whom do I kill?”

 

Varric shook his head as he sloshed more brandy into Dorian's glass, grunting unhappily. “Isn't that the worst of it, Sparkler?” Varric launched into his tale, but Dorian's mind was refusing to let him listen, taking him back to a few nights ago, when they had come ashore from the sea.

 

_Dorian was lounging by the campfire, reading a book. He'd been too excited by the familiar terrain to allow himself to relax. Truthfully, the book was failing to hold his interest. Cole was off at the edge of the shadows, staring into nothingness. Well, Dorian supposed, it probably wasn't nothing. He thought of Cole like a cat in that respect, entranced by invisible entities traveling in sunbeams. In Cole's case, Dorian was sure that_ something _was out there. Harmless, obviously._

 

“ _Dorian,” came a whisper, the familiar voice sending a pleasing shock through his core, and he turned. “You-you-”_

 

_Dorian stared, disbelieving. Something in his mind told him that this was a dangerous thing, that this moment couldn't be anything else, and he didn't care. Devlin crouched at his side, and his green eyes sparkled in the flicker of the fire. “I've missed you too much,” he said, pressing his forehead into Dorian's shoulder._

 

What are you doing here? _Dorian wanted to ask, but he couldn't bring himself to break the moment. He pressed his lips against Devlin's hair, almost shuddering. They sat like that for a few eternal moments before Devlin pulled away and stood._

 

“ _Follow me,” Devlin said, reaching out a hand. Dorian hesitated, that sense of something perilous not abating. He glanced over at Cole, sitting cross-legged at the edge of the shadows and facing away, but not reacting. If this were something dangerous, Cole would know._

 

_Dorian leapt to his feet, smiling hesitantly at Devlin. “I guess I'm just a glutton for misery,” he said, moving after Devlin. “Couldn't let myself believe you were really here. Still can't believe it. Slow down, Devlin! What's the rush?” Devlin was picking up speed, running across a patch of ground mottled with stone and spiky grass._

 

_Tossing his book to the side, Dorian chased after. Devlin disappeared over the edge of a ridge, and Dorian caught up just in time to see him leap upon a ladder, catching it in midair and sliding down the frame. The Free Marches mage was nearly as nimble as a rogue when it came to going up and down._

“ _You're quite mad,” Dorian called down as he whisked himself down the ladder._

 

_Devlin's laugh danced weakly across the space between them. “I am, aren't I?” He ran over to the next ladder, adding, “It's your fault. This is what happens-”_

 

_His hands missed the ladder, and his eyes widened, arms flailing forward and catching nothing._

 

_Dorian's heart leapt out of his throat and he threw himself after it, landing on his chest with an arm stretched out over the edge, and he wasn't sure if it was his own body or Devlin's that had thudded so loudly in his ears, through his body, but the echo didn't stop, growing only louder as he stared at his lover down below, unmoving, and Dorian couldn't move either, couldn't breathe, as everything swelled within and without-_

 

“ _Wake up. It's not real,” he heard, and rolled over, stunned, but Cole was there, shaking him by the shoulder and looking down at him fearfully. “Not real, Dorian.”_

 

_Dorian, still breathing heavily and shaking, looked up at Cole, over at the campfire. He exhaled sharply, pushing himself up onto an elbow. “Idiot,” he scolded himself. He took a few deep breaths and reached into his pack, drawing out a bottle and taking a few generous swigs before he sat upright. The book lay to one side where he'd dropped it when he'd fallen asleep. “Of course it isn't real,” he said in a tone of frustration, chiding himself for how willing he'd been to accept it. Still, it had been terrifying in its vividness. “Thanks for waking me, Cole.”_

 

_Cole still sat there, his legs folded under him. “It isn't real,” he repeated. “Not the way other things are real.”_

 

“ _That's the Fade for you,” Dorian agreed, digging the book out of the dust and deciding to stay clear of any more dreams for now._

 

“Sparkler?” Varric said, his brow furrowed with concern.

 

Dorian snapped back, the part of him that had been paying attention flooding his awareness with the details of the tale. “Impossible!” he snapped, furious. “The Inquisitor isn't just found dead in his tent!” He stood up so quickly that the bottle rocked backwards, but Varric caught it and handed it to Dorian, who dispensed with glassware entirely. “There's a demon, or a dragon, or even a stupid cadre of bandits!”

 

Varric had his palms up with his elbows on the table's edge, and his mouth was hanging open. Clearly, he'd dropped whatever he was going to say.

 

“Not. Tents!” Dorian hissed at Varric, slamming a fist on the table and enjoying the bright red pain that crested up his arm and through his chest, driving back the heavier agony that was trying to stop his breath. “Tell a better tale, dwarf! Isn't that what you do?”

 

Varric said nothing. His face was a study in helplessness.

 

Dorian turned away, He put one hand over his mouth, every tiny fiber in his muscles vibrating. “Three days . . .” _If I'd only been a little faster . . ._

 

And when he looked up, he saw Cole standing there, looking hurt and confused. “It's isn't right. This isn't how it happens. Varric-” Cole shifted his unearthly gaze to Varric, his normally faraway eyes filled with a pain that he was clearly feeling from within as well as without. “I wasn't fast enough?” he asked the dwarf, who looked at the spirit sympathetically.

 

“Kid, you were faster than anyone had any right to be. I don't think anyone else would have even made it to Minrathous by now.”

 

“Did anyone stop to consider _my_ grief? The nerve!” Dorian exclaimed, rolling his eyes. It seemed the kindest thing he could manage for Cole at the moment, and he saw that Varric looked surprised. “I'm not talking to you, dwarf,” he added haughtily. “Not until you spin a better ending to that tale.” And just like that, Dorian had boxed it away in a trunk made of finest polished denial. If he was lucky, he'd keep it hidden from himself just long enough to make it to someplace solitary. Minutes, perhaps. He choked back a sound and moved for the door.

 

If they appreciated his normal quips, they might not follow. True, Cole was absolutely terrible at understanding the concept of solitude in pain, but if Varric thought Dorian was doing all right, he'd probably keep Cole busy himself. Dorian snorted angrily, hot tears pounding at the back of his eyes, demanding to be let out. He needed to maintain this until he was safe from having to be anything but devastated.

 

Dorian found himself back in the main hall, and looked around, considering his options. If Treveylan had even kept Dorian's rooms, he'd already passed them after he left Varric, and he wasn't turning back. He could make his way downstairs, but he had unpleasant visions of being discovered in Skyhold's wine cellar by the cook in a most compromised position. The chapel was out of the question as well; given the news, it would probably be occupied, and he was never to fond of Chantry nonsense. _Devlin wasn't either._

 

There was one place where he was sure he could be alone, and he suddenly needed to be there. “He crossed the hall to the door, not far off from the empty throne- _“Really? You thought a throne of the Marches would make them feel better?” “No, I just like it. It's mine. If I must have a throne.”_ \- and tried the door. Unlocked.

 

He entered the lower floor, noting that it still looked haphazard and unfinished. He tried to ignore the fact that it would stay this way, and made his way to the next door. This one was locked. Of course.

 

Dorian obliterated the damned door with a spell, leaving it singed and sagging in his wake.

 

The room was no different than he remembered, but he didn't have time to examine a bit of it. He'd come here to be alone, and he wasn't. On the ridiculous, massive bed was Devlin's corpse, laid out, looking nothing like sleep and peace, and looking everything tortured. Dorian didn't even notice himself cross the room, climbing in beside his love. He touched fingers to his face, and almost collapsed. The skin was cold; the tiny veins and muscles absolutely motionless. He kissed Devlin's gaunt cheeks, so much thinner than he remembered, and threw his arms over the body, suddenly weeping. There was nothing else as he spilled his warm tears onto Devlin's shoulder. “Stop this, amatus. Please,” he begged, trying to revive him with his warmth. “I'm so sorry. I'm not. Why? Just . . . come back!” _Dead in a tent? It's not true._ “Is this . . . you're playing with stupid . . .” Nothing more than the grief he'd come to feel.

 

As he lay there, weeping and sniveling in the most unbecoming fashion, he found himself even less alone. When Cole spoke, he almost lashed out at the intrusion, especially when the spirit's tone was so light.

 

“This isn't real, either!” exclaimed the young man, reaching over Devlin's body to Dorian. “Dorian, listen. It's only a small time, a small thought, everyone is wrong. Whispering, whimpering, wanting, far away, but not gone. Going, grieving, grasping. Dorian!”

 

Dorian glared at him, exercising everything he had to keep from lobbing a ball of elemental fury at Cole. “Get out,” he said, his voice dangerously soft, but Cole was oblivious. Fortunately.

 

Suddenly, Cole was beside him, standing next to him on Dorian's own side of the bed. “Not dead,” Cole said hopefully, grasping for Dorian's attention. “It doesn't end this way. I thought it didn't.”

 

Dorian restrained his anger long enough to draw himself away from Devlin and sit up. There was some seed of hope, and although he had little composure left, he had to listen. _Wrapped up in lies_ , he thought angrily. _If that's what I am supposed to be . . . it isn't the first time._ “Please, Cole.” _That isn't what I meant to say._

 

Cole reached out and put a hand on Devlin's arm, and smiled. _Smile? He dares to smile?_ “He isn't gone. He's left, but he can come back.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do want to emphasize the Cole put his hand on Devlin's arm, not Dorian's. I'm not sure why that's important, but it is. Maybe just because it would be weird if Cole suddenly started showing a specifically mortal form of empathy.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Third notes: This chapter is not the best. The next one is better.
> 
> A shorter chapter, even edited because I realized that you don't know what's in my head. Silly me. And damn this Hawke appearance for him not being any ONE of my Hawkes; now I need a solid playthrough with this character.
> 
> I did not add a tag for reference to Anders being dead, but please let me know if I should. Still learning.
> 
> The original chapter notes:
> 
> This chapter feels a bit unfinished, but that's because I am visiting family, and I get all melty and distracted when my 6-year-old niece says "Uncle Aidan! Play with me!" I missed some writing moments, and I have no regrets.
> 
> Also, I added a Hawke tag. I knew he'd be a part of my expanded world, but I didn't know he'd show up in this story. Damned characters and their free wills.

Dorian despaired of fully understanding what Cole was saying. Offering query after query, he tried to break through the frustrating daze of Fade-touched speech, but still found himself without a healthy grasp of what was happening to Devlin.

 

“So it isn't the Fade as I know it,” he clarified, riaising one finger and both eyebrows. He stood, now, near the bed, but able to pace as his thoughts required.

 

“It's not. But it is also the Fade, even as it isn't. A place from a place but outside.”

 

Dorian nodded, need keeping him composed even as they repeated the points. Cole never spoke the same exact phrases twice, dancing around moments and time and perception without an anchor. Every time Dorian listened, he deciphered a little more. Comprehension was . . . well, he thought ruefully, inevitable if not imminent. Dorian added a second finger. “And this place is like the Fade removed or changed by Devlin. He is not visiting; he has made it.”

 

Cole nodded. “Brought it away to escape. Took the old magic and old knowledge and slipped out in the night.”

 

“That's something,” Dorian said sharply, quickly. _Those were new words, and there were new hints._ He cast his eyes around the room, looking for Devlin's current stack of literature, but decided that he'd best keep pressing Cole.

 

“Like a song. You can't help which part you hear when you walk in. Beautiful. Different.” Cole beamed. “Kind.”

 

He looked back at Cole, his brow drawn tight. _Maker, he's fleeting!_ “Devlin,” Dorian said patiently, but firmly. _He's gotten worse - well, further away - since I last saw him. Is it Devlin, or is it the shattering of the family of the Inquisition?_ It wasn't time to ask about the new information, yet, though his chest tightened with excitement at another lead. “Cole, is he dying?” Last time, he'd asked how long Devlin could stay like this, and the response had been vague, some whispers about the body no longer warming.

 

Cole's face flashed rare fear for a moment, and he huddled into himself before he whispered, “Not dying, worse. He will be trapped there forever, outside of the Fade . . . you won't touch him, no man nor mage nor monster can enter, and the body is gone, but he is forever in the prison. Indestructible, eternal. Forever.”

 

Dorian let a wave of cold pass through him as he thought of what that meant. All of this was still immensely unclear, but what Cole described sounded like a nightmare run away from the rest of the Fade. That wasn't something that he had believed was possible, but neither was a dead body that was also alive. “Cole, if he isn't dead, why is his body cold?” he tried.

 

“The tether is gone,” Cole answered seriously, looking down. The spirit was seated on the floor, cross-legged and tense.

 

“The tether is gone in death. How can you say he isn't dead?”

 

“He is not with the Fade yet. He has not passed through. He is away. But he could be there as well as here. He must choose before the body, or he will be trapped.” Cole looked absolutely stricken with despair.

 

Dorian wished again that Solas were here. He could speak more easily to Cole, and any Fade magics were his purview. And, if Dorian's suspicions were correct, whatever old magic Devlin had found was Elvhen, though whether he'd learned by study or the knowledge of the Well was still unknown. “No harm in knowledge?” he shot at Devlin's body on the bed. “I told you'd I'd kill you if you didn't make it out of the Well. Don't think you're out of the woods just yet,” he warned sternly, but the way his jaw buzzed with unyielding tension belied his flippancy.

 

“I can't do anymore right now. Thanks, Cole. Don't leave,” he uttered quickly. “I only need a few moments.”

 

A warm, gruff voice broke in. “Should I come back later, Sparkler?”

 

Dorian looked towards the doorway. Varric stood cautiously, not crossing the threshhold. “Quite the party. I only hope I'm presentable,” he told him as way of invitation. “We're making such small progress that this might as well be afternoon tea.”

 

“Well, maybe I can help,” Varric offered, though his tone was cautious. “You wanted a mage. A better mage than the crowd up on the ramparts. I did what I could, but you've gotta know that this is what it is-”

 

Dorian, immediately relieved and irritated with anticipation, threw his eyes upward. “Vishante kaffass! Bring in the mage!” There wasn't time for diplomacy, now.

 

Varric nodded down the stairs, and after a moment, the mage entered the room.

 

“Of course. Perfect,” Dorian said loudly. “It would be Hawke.” Hawke, who, though he may not want to kill me, shares the bed and heart of one who does. Hawke who looks at him with hardly buried disgust and blame. Hawke whose eyes accuse him of worse than murder. And Dorian doesn't really have an answer, because Hawke never asks a question that he can juggle mercilessly into a spun-sugar answer. Hawke simply glares. _Such a tired phrase, glaring daggers, but the man gives it life again_.

 

Varric tried to ease the tension. “He's the best we have here-”

 

Hawke shook his head and pushed his way past the dwarf. “Here? Nearly anywhere. Pavus-”

 

Dorian's eyes became dangerous. “You _say_ Pavus, but I'm hearing Vint. Not so well-hidden a slur.”

 

“Yeah. Dorian. I have some experience with the Fade, and I've seen more kinds of nonsense than I should have. And, YES,” he said emphatically, “we-” he motioned between them “-don't speak. But I'm your best hope for help now. The rest can wait. We owe Devlin. And what can I say? I've got a soft spot for impossible romance.”

 

“And a pretty hard spot for madness,” Dorian sniped. Was it fair? Not entirely, but the rumors that Fenris had drunkenly stated he would pull the Tevinter's heart from his chest were well-confirmed at this point. Varric may insist that a bottle of wine and misplaced rage meant the threat was nothing more than that, but Dorian prickled at the animosity regardless. Hawke's face looked like storm clouds had taken up permanent residence, but neither pushed another button. “I thought you left.”

 

“We are back,” Hawke said shortly, and the pronoun wasn't lost on Dorian. Since Hawke had moved with such concern to Devlin's side, he restrained his commentary.

 

“Sparkler, you've listened to too many stories. You've never even met him.” Dorian had his own dramatic reaction to the news in Herald's Rest, and Varric had been the audience.

 

It wasn't the time, and besides, Varric was correct. “Right you are, Varric. I'm sure I could charm him out of it.” Hawke gave him the tiniest glance before moving his hands over Devlin, again. Dorian still felt something between irritation and unease. Everyone knew that Hawke had executed the infamous apostate by his own hand, but even Varric said that Fenris's cool words may have spurred the knife. Dorian could never quite shake the feeling that Hawke would someday drink too much whiskey and try to make him answer for Tevinter's crimes.

 

The Fereldan-turned-Kirkwall mage stood and turned. “Can I talk to Cole?”

 

“I'll make sure he's on your dance card,” Dorian answered, but he stood aside, waiting.

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the last chapter, but I think this one is better. And it has some tender stuff!
> 
> Fun fact about this chapter: It was written on a plane, and by hand. Sadly, I can't always be on a plane.

Dorian watched the healer ask Cole similar questions, and receive similar answers. But where Dorian found himself feeling increasingly ill with worry, Hawke looked thoughtful, even understanding as he listened to Cole's replies.

He found himself distracted by Hawke's glib implication that he was the better mage. While Hawke's focus as a spirit healer meant that Dorian, bedgrudgingly, was forced to admit his skills might be more helpful to Devlin, he harbored some strong opinions about the education of southern mages. In Dorian's view, Circle-educated mages of the south were already inferior by training, although he eschewed the biases of his countrymen that they were equally unworthy in breeding. The Chantry-driven curriculum, imprisonment, and black & white view of permissable magics meant that southerners simply lacked the sophisticated tutelage of the Magisterium's Circles. Treveylan had actually agreed with him, to his great shock.

“ _And what of me, ma vhenan? Am I such an ignorant lout, as likely to burn down a village as light a brazier in the dark? Must I submit to your superior knowledge, gaze up at you from at your knees while you teach me a child's letters?” The green eyes lit up with amusement, but Dorian could tell from the slightly tilted head, and the faintest pursing of Treveylan's brows, that his beloved awaited his reply with real consideration._

_Dorian tsked. “You really ought to, if you know what's wise. It simply doesn't do for the leader of the Inquisition to be fumbling about with magic like a barbarian.”_

_The red-haired mage smiled with the left side of his mouth, hands grasped behind him. He rocked forward onto his toes for a moment, then back again. “You and your colleagues know much I do not,” he admitted, “but I can say the same for myself.”_

_The Tevinter mage had a guffaw, tracing a finger along the red-brown stubble gracing Devlin's cheek. “Of course. Loads of magic I've never learned, most of which is dead, and the rest you can barely use. I doubt you'll wake up with pointed ears in the morning.”_

_ Devlin put his hand atop Dorian's, kissing the underside of his fingers. “You cannot deny the value of magical theory, especially ancient and rare crafts.” His eyes closed as he exhaled, making the tiniest sound of satisfaction. He looked like a cat in a sunbeam, eyes just shy of fully lidded, relaxed, and holding back a purr. “Not much to do in southern Circles but dream of escape or study. Maybe it was my privileged visits home, but I spent my time on the latter.” Dorian heard the wet sound in Devlin's throat as he swallowed hungrily, saw the lump ripple under the skin of his throat. The other mage had taken Dorian's longest finger into his mouth at the tip. _

_ Dorian inhaled sharply through his nose. “See?” he attempted, stumbling slightly at Devlin's fingers snaking beneath a buckle. “Is this manner – of thing acceptable . . . when you're losing a debate . . . In Ostwick?” Devlin had somehow undone two more straps while Dorian struggled to speak, and he felt a tingle through his damp fingertips as the chill of the air struck them, Devlin's mouth abandoning them to attend to Dorian's chest. _

“ _Wouldn't know,” Devlin retorted in a whisper, his face in Dorian's shoulder. He nuzzled Dorian's neck, lips pulling at the skin – he'd bring out teeth soon,_ please! _ “Never lost.” _

Dorian blinked in surprise. He found himself seated at the edge of the giant bed, holding Devlin's hand in his lap. He wasn't sure how long had passed whilst he was lost in the memory, but the hand he grasped so tightly now held the illusion of life, warm, clammy with sweat.  _ Wrapped in lies. _

He shook off the moment, looking back at Hawke. The Kirkwall mage was even less than a Circle mage of the south, with little formal study, and a life of training conducted by his father on a farm, always in secret. There were no lessons by multiple mages, all experts in their fields of study. There were no massive libraries, laboratories, and collections of artifacts, no carefully planned course of study. Just a man, a boy, and his wee sister, hiding in Lothering's agrarian outskirts.

But Hawke was the best man here for this. Dorian cursed the disappearance of Solas yet again, and looked between Hawke and Cole. The latter was seated on the floor, staring with shining eyes at the former, crouched across from him with a hand upon Cole's knee. He seemed to be smiling slightly as he whispered something to Cole, who was practically beaming with excitement.

Hawke stood, turning to Dorian. “We've got this figured out.”

If that was the case, Dorian assumed the questions written on Hawke's face were for him. Regretfully, he squeezed Devlin's hand and placed it upon his chest. He stood up, smoothing and tugging at errant fabric. After meeting Hawke's stare with no reaction for what he was sure was an age, he sighed. “Before the next Blight, if you would?”

Hawke had somehow managed to look sympathetic For a moment, Dorian thought the man meant to touch his arm with similar empathy, but Hawke snapped his hand back to his side. “It is this: Devlin has ripped apart a piece of the Fade, put it outside of time and place, even for the Fade. It exists as an island in the void.” At Dorian's raised eyebrow, Hawke waved a hand in dismissal.  _ I shall have to learn this void _ . And Hawke continued.

“It is within a fortress created when he ripped the space away. The energy-” Hawke swallowed, looking troubled as he glanced at Cole. “-required would have been massive. Metaphorically, it would be the same kind of magic in the Fade as blood magic in our physical world. Cole has told me that Devlin destroyed several demons that night, and that the demons came to Devlin. He was uncorrupted by their efforts, but he was still troubled, and he made this happen.”

Dorian did not care for this unfamiliar thing. “He trapped himself there?”

Hawke's face became thoughtful; his lips thinned and his eyes drifted. “Yes, and no. He has built a fortress with no gate, a tomb with no door. He is willing to die there. The only demons that will trouble him will be of his own making. He has no desire to be  _ here _ anymore, and he has gone there to die. Unfortunately, if he dies there, he stays on that island in the void, and will never know peace in happiness nor death. Yes, that, he might not know. However, he brought a few good memories to that spot. He would still have those to find from time to time, along with nightmares.”

Hawke nodded to himself, and finished, “It would be forever.” He hesitated. “I don't know if you believe in the Maker-”

“Doubtful, especially at this point,” Dorian said.

Hawke met his eyes, looking surprised. “But I thought-” He laughed. “I don't, either. So forget the the Maker's side. This is a fate I'd wish on nobody. We can't let him  _ really  _ die there.”

Dorian still had a soft impulse to strangle him-not enough to kill him, but just to let him know how insensitive he was at this moment.  _ I wouldn't let him die for anything, much less torture. _ “The Well did this?”

Hawke's face went slack with confusion as he thought, then his eyes firmed. “It did not. It is something not foreign to the Elvhen.” Hawke sighed, shrugged, and mounted a chair in the wrong direction. “He never knew that he did it.”

“I speak four languages, Hawke. Watch your tenses.”

Hawke threw his arms over the back of the chair, looking at Dorian. “You're right. So, how much sleep have you had lately?”

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

At Hawke's insistence, Dorian had taken a potion to help him sleep well-dreamless, uninterrupted sleep, the best he'd had in weeks. “It's dangerous for you to enter if you are not rested,” he'd warned Dorian. “You could become confused, and be trapped yourself.”

Hawke had explained Dorian's role over breakfast. “You'll have to go in after him. Cole will help. I don't understand if Cole will be with you, or only a conduit for your entry, but he shall help you into Devlin's creation.”

Dorian frowned, tracing a finger around the rim of his cup. “Fade magic is not my greatest strength,” he said, his eyes troubled. “Is there no other mage here who could help?”

Hawke shook his head slowly. “You're the only one who can enter. Devlin won't allow anyone else in. It's _your_ bond that gives you access to what is otherwise impenetrable.” They both glanced over at Cole, sitting in the corner and staring into the fire. “Dorian, what I know, I know from speaking with Cole. It's a limited way to gain information. My gifts mean I'm not unused to communicating with Fade spirits, but this is still something largely unknown. I can make no promises.” The implication was there: _not for your safety, nor his._

Dorian nodded, looking down into his cup as he sighed. “I know. I know!” He ran his fingers through his hair, not nearly so carefully coiffed as usual. He couldn't justify spending even moments on something so trivial when time was of the essence. Breakfast was another condition set by Hawke, and he glared suggestively at Hawke's unfinished meal. Dorian had forced his down with speed, impatient. “Hawke, you may have insisted I eat my eggs and sausage, but I doubt we need to wait for you. Let's have this begun.” He looked up at the surprised gaze from Hawke, who exhaled softly before setting down his fork.

“All right,” Hawke agreed uncomfortably. “We can begin. Dorian, I don't know what we're doing,” he reminded him in a rushed tone. “It's up to you and Cole.”

Dorian let his eyes fall closed and laughed softly, surprising himself. “I know. It doesn't matter.” He pushed away from the table and stood, glancing over to the entrance to the Inquistor's quarters, the outer door still shamelessly unharmed. He heard Hawke move to follow as he made his way across the hall. _You had to play with magic you'll never understand, amatus. Why?_ Everything else became a blur as he passed through the public part of the keep.

_Dorian stroked Treveylan's hair as they lay upon his bed, both holding books with distracted hands. Devlin's latest efforts at redecorating had drawn Dorian's criticism, and he couldn't help but to feel that he was disappointed in Dorian's reaction. Dorian had sniped about the décor, feeling a little guilty when Devlin had let him know that it had cost over 20,000 gold to furnish the quarters with imported Orlesian goods._

“ _I'm sorry,” Dorian said. “I imagine that neither Circle décor nor Free Marches manors are really up to date with the latest fashions. It does have . . . character.”_

_Trevelyan grunted. “I like it,” he growled defensively. He turned his head so that his cheek lay upon Dorian's shoulder. With a stifled groan, he raised his head, his chin pressing sharply against Dorian as he pleaded. “At least we have curtains now.”_

_Dorian appreciated the extended morning, and he let the book drop, but not the subject. He stared at Devlin, running idle fingers through his hair. “Yes. Dalish curtains. A Fereldan monstrosity of a bed. Circle accoutrements. It's a mess.” But he said so tenderly, and Devlin smiled with equal cheek._

“ _I'm pulled everywhere by everyone. But two things are mine.” Devlin shifted himself up onto his elbow, looking at Dorian like nobody ever should. “This room . . . and you.”_

“Still a disaster,” Dorian said critically as he entered the room. “But I'm patient. We'll train you up yet, southerner.” He looked over to Devlin, still insisting on being as dead as ever. Hawke had given him some uncertain explanation, and Dorian lay beside the mage. “No guarantees,” Dorian advised Devlin's body, echoing the memory as he fingered his hair. “I am here, amatus.” And he lay against him, feeling something so desperate that he wanted to flee. “You look positively awful,” added Dorian. “Really, I need to teach you how to present yourself. Barbarian,” he added, exhaling loudly.

It was only moments before Hawke entered, and Cole was there. Dorian wasn't sure when the spirit had arrived, and he thought that he might have been there all along. The Tevinter mage started to sit upright, but Hawke shook his head.

“You have to do a thing like sleep. Stay there.” Surprisingly, Hawke's voice held pity, sympathy, understanding. Suddenly, Dorian was restless. _What if this fails? If I fail?_

Cole established himself on the floor alongside the bed.

“Cole will help you,” Hawke choked out, and Dorian suddenly felt overwhelmed by the realization that Hawke was only here to observe. He didn't know this magic. Dorian was unprepared, he'd said no goodbyes, and he wished desperately that he had a mortal friend present. Like Varric.

But as he watched Hawke take a seat, he became drowsy, and his mind began to lose its wit. Everything was soft, and he was very aware of Cole's voice in his head. _Dorian, come. Dorian._

Everything faded out and Dorian was gone.

 


	11. Chapter 11

He felt crushed, breathless, and as though he ought to vomit. He also felt as though he'd never eaten and didn't know what such a thing would even feel like. “This is not right,” Dorian muttered as he remembered his own name. He was on his feet, and everything looked normal. But he didn't feel the echoes of his surroundings, a mage's gift. The room looked ordinary enough, and he thought that he recognized it. _Yes . . . Haven . . ._ That memory came to the forefront of his mind as he cast his eyes about the humble surroundings. There was the hearth, and the desk by it, a roughly assembled wooden chair tucked beneath it. The small bed was only a few feet away, still close enough in the tiny cottage to enjoy the heat of the fire, and Dorian remembered the blanket upon it, warm and coarse and weighty. He glanced at the door, shut, but allowing cold, drafty whispers in through its unrefined construction. “I think something happens here,” he mused, still confused. Indeed, there was a knock at the door, and Dorian made his way to open it, his mind still uncertain. On the other side of the door, surrounded by last night's snowfall teasing at at his feet, the wind disturbing the drifts into an icy dust, stood a red-haired man that Dorian remembered meeting once, before he'd been whisked away by the templar, the Seeker, and the equally flame-haired woman. Yes, he'd invited him to join. Dorian hadn't been expecting this moment. _I think this happened already_ , Dorian tried to think, and he felt easier, but sensed the man in front of him wasn't there, even as he pushed in out of the cold and shut the door, huffing softly. “Maker, it's cold in Haven. I'd imagine it's even worse for you,” he added, moving nearer to the hearth.

“Nonsense,” Dorian responded. “Everything is better once I'm involved. Especially when you reward guests with drafty shacks. I'd have been a much better host. A hot bath, a proper room, and wine served by the most . . . _skilled_ of servants. I already doubt your ability to change the world when untouched wool passes for hospitality.”

The man smiled, and Dorian was overtaken by familiarity. _Who?_ “Well, yes,” the man admitted, looking about the room ruefully. “I'm sure you would have.” He made a sound in his throat, and finished, “Let me know if there is anything that you need. Aside from a palace and a retinue, of course.” Looking startled at his own words, the man gave a slight bow and scurried out the door.

Dorian stared at the wooden barrier, feeling the wind wisp in to chill him. _Something else . . ._ he scurried after, following the man to the tavern down the hill.

She sat across from him, looking something between thoughtful and critical. “Adopting a Tevinter mage may not be the wisest course of action,” warned the spymaster over her wine. “And what else are you pursuing?”

The redheaded man looked down, stifling a smile. “I don't know,” he admitted with a chuckle. “But I do know that I want it. I've never wanted to be a slave,” he added in a rush. “And I have no intentions of letting this effort use me.” He looked off to the left, his green eyes unfocused. “I should be able to have wants.”

“No one is saying that you shouldn't have your own will,” Leiliana - _yes, that's her name! s_ aid carefully. “I am pleased you are free of the Circle. But you do not know this man. It is unwise for the Herald to be seen coming from his cabin. Even less so for you to be seen in his company.”

The man dropped his eyes, clutching his goblet. “Haven't you seen him? He feels-” and the goblet was brought to his lips, washing away the words. “I don't want this Herald nonsense!” he shot back, and Dorian saw tears of rage behind his eyes. “No more Circle! No more obligations. What do you want from me? Am I meant to save the world? Fine!” His voice was rising now, and the emptied cup had been slammed against the table. “But if you lot mean to kill me, I intend to find happiness first. I don't' know what it is, but he echoes against me. I won't stop.”

“Oh, you're drunk, Devlin,” Leliana chirped, sliding his cup away from him.

Dorian, watching the exchange, remembered that this man was almost never angry. Something about the green eyes flashing with hidden anger seemed strange to him, but also authentic.

_This is a memory. I never heard this. Why does it please me?_

“Dorian,” came a whisper, and he turned around. There was a pale, hollow-eyed young man seated in the corner, eyes wide and wet with desperation. “This place is good. But we cannot stay. Too many places to be. Home and helping and his mind. Not much left for me. Moving on; fighting to be first there. Please, Dorian. No more here. Three places is too many. It hurts”

Dorian blinked, some remembrance returning.  _ Cole. _ He couldn't remember why he was here, but he did recall the spirit, who looked the worse for wear. Dorian sighed, casting a glance over his shoulder, but he found no one there. The tavern was empty, except for the spirit. 

“Devlin,” Dorian rasped obviously. “For a moment, I forgot.” He glanced around the tavern again, now silent and empty. He'd gladly give too much to have the memory back, but it was over. Eying Cole, he felt another layer of worry. Cole was huddled up into himself, rarely moving and in no state to raise a dagger, although Dorian wasn't sure if blades mattered here

“Open the door,” Cole said, sounding soft and far away.

“Which one?” asked Dorian, glancing at both tavern exits.

Cole had his eyes closed, shaking slightly. “Your choice. I want to help. I don't have much time here. It is apart from what I am. The next one will be harder.”

Dorian cast his gaze between the two doors, haunted by the silence in the empty tavern.  _Devlin was here._ But he hadn't been. It was like a portrait; Devlin himself wasn't present. He thought back to the nightmare he'd had a few nights ago. As much as Cole had insisted that it wasn't real, he remembered feeling his lover's presence reverberate against his own, even in sleep. “He was there then,” he mused aloud, and looked at the doors again, hoping to feel anything, but the space seemed to be heavy with emptiness.

He took the left door, because Treveylan was left-handed. H remembered being slightly unnerved by his casting the first time, Devlin tossing a ball of electricity at a slightly different angle than expected. In Tevinter, a regimented program of breeding and training meant that all mages cast with the right hand. It was simply too chaotic to allow another mage throwing out deadly spells out of sync with everyone else. “So the southern Circles have one small freedom,” he allowed as he walked to the door. “Still a shame to cage you, amatus.” As he glanced back at Cole, still not standing to follow, he understood the newest risk. Cole was of the Fade, and had brought himself into the mortal world. Now, he was here as well. The connection to the Fade was severed, here, and Cole was trying to be everywhere at once. Dorian tried to dismiss Cole's time, or to assume that Cole would simply . . . _pop out_ . . . if he couldn't manage, but he was a man well-educated, and he realized this was untrue.  _And now I am responsible for two lives, and the hourglass sighs away the grains._ “I shall hurry, Cole. But I am ready for the next.”

“I hope so, Dorian,” Cole said heavily, working his way upright with too much effort. “I think I'm starting to understand when you talked of being tired.” But the spirit's eyes were as hopeful as ever, and he moved towards Dorian with pained purpose. “This place,” he said in the slightest whisper. But he said nothing more, merely waiting behind Dorian, looking down.

“He'll give me no thanks if you don't come out all right,” Dorian warned Cole sternly, his hand on the door. “If haste is mandated, I think Devlin would appreciate coming out of this with you on the other side.” _I should have run off to Antiva and become a Crow. All of this caring . . . Maker. I can't stop it._

Cole had no response as Dorian opened the door.

 

 

 


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took me a long time to update because I have been sick, and in the hospital, even. So that's been a hindrance. 
> 
> This is a pretty short chapter for two reasons. One, after nine days, I was afraid this was starting to look like an abandoned fic, and I didn't want that. Also, I tried to write a battle, and it turns out that I HATE writing battles. especially all-mage battles. Therefore, unless something inspirational strikes, we probably won't spend too much more time here until we reach the reunion. Yay!

And then he was in the middle of a battle. Devlin stood in front of the demon, his coat bearing marks of both blood and fire. He had a cut over his right eye, and the white robe let Dorian see the blood seeping into the fabric. The man's jaw was tense, and he looked ready to take the battle to the end. He watched Devlin's chest rise and fall with breath before he made a move.

The demon gathered itself, advancing towards Devlin. Dorian summoned a shard of ice to puncture the fiery skin, but the bulk of the ice melted upon impact. The remaining ice splintered across the demon's body, and Dorian noted that the creature staggered backwards. Devlin glanced at him gratefully, and swung his staff about, casting another bolt of electricity that only seemed to enrage the demon. The abomination moved forward, striking Devlin with a wave of fire, and the southerner staggered, struggling for breath. Dorian dashed closer, his own staff readied.

“No!” he heard from the side, a tortured utterance from the young spirit to his side. “Too close to death. Stay – out - “

He gave the huddled spirit only the slightest glance before returning to the fight. Devlin was still stumbling, but he pushed out a wave of energy that sent the demon's form back the barest bit, its body vibrating from the blow. Dorian thrust a wave of electricity crackling over it, injuring it every time it swayed within the net. Devlin circled left and readied his staff again, his eyes narrowed. He did not have time to cast again before the demon dashed forward, striking with lightning-quick talons, and gouging Treveylan's side. The man fell to one knee, one hand knuckling the ground, but he raised angry eyes and kept his staff upright, even as his body shook with the pain.

Dorian, swollen with pain and anger, ran towards the encounter, thinking no more of the spells, but only reaching his side to defend. The demon seemed to swell in his vision, which was tinged with a sense of red. He was getting close-

And he felt a fiery pain in the back of his thigh, a volcanic shaft collapsing him in his path. His sight left him as every fiber of his body forgot everything to face that pain. Gasping, he lay there, unable to move, unable to recall why he needed to stand. He felt dirt against his cheek, and gulped like a fish. After a few moments, he rolled over to see Cole standing there with a panicked look, dagger still in hand. The pain was receding rapidly into nothing, murmuring away.

Dorian looked up at him, wary and confused. His hand rubbed his leg-it seemed fine. “Cole-did you just _stab_ me?”

“His place, the one he made, the dreamer's world. No power away from the sleeper. He can create and kill in an instant. He is all gods here, none cruel nor kind. Careful, danger is the dreamer, and deadly.” Cole looked a bit weaker, and unsteady. He swayed a bit before the dagger disappeared. “His dreams can hurt you. We are here. I cannot hurt you. It is no place I am.” He looked a bit clearer for a moment. “I had to distract you so you wouldn't hurt yourself.”

Dorian gave him a properly irritated stare before standing. The demon and Devlin were gone, and the mundane scrub across this patch of grass seemed particularly unthreatening. “What happened?” He had felt the echo of Devlin there, some long ache that was no longer silent. Twice, now, his responsibly hidden self had reacted with desperation.

“It is part of what he made. You must avoid, not engage. It can kill you. Then I will fall away.” Cole looked troubled again.

“What do I _do_ , then?” Dorian said in frustration.

“We find him.”

 


End file.
